Second Horseman Out of Eden

'I know you're not working for Nuvironment, Lieutenant,' I said, casting an evil glance at my brother. I felt like a tap dancer in combat boots on a bare stage in a concert performance where someone kept speeding up the music. 'And I certainly never meant to imply that you would cave in to pressures from people above you. But let's face it: the fact that you're here celebrating Christmas with us instead of with your daughter and grandchildren means that you've been assigned a watchdog role-and you can bet your about-to-retire ass that the decision to put you in the position you're in was made at a high level. They want you to handle us, Lieutenant, not arrest us. Nuvironment definitely will not want publicity about the religious freaks the company appears to be linked with. And, frankly, when all is said and done, I just don't think a jury, after we tell them what's happened, is going to believe that the famous Fredericksons, with all they now have to lose, would throw it all away by throwing two guys to their deaths off their own roof. Come on, McCloskey.'

'But they might believe that the deaths arose out of aggravated assault,' the detective said through clenched teeth. 'They might convict for manslaughter.'

'Maybe, maybe not. Still, I seriously doubt that either the NYPD or the DA's office would want to be cast in a bad light. If you'll recall, this started out as a pro bono investigation of a child sexual abuse case by two noted, if you'll permit me to say so, private investigators. As far as Garth and I are concerned, that's still all it is. At the beginning, we went to the appropriate authorities, and they pledged to cooperate with us. We're going to keep at it, Lieutenant-even if it's through our lawyers, from behind bars. In my opinion, you and the department aren't going to improve your images if it looks like you're harassing us because of pressure from a private corporation that has right-wing-and possibly neo-Nazi-religious loonies on its staff, tolerates child sexual abuse, and is almost certainly harboring a fugitive. We didn't kill those men, Lieutenant, and I think you know it. What Garth was trying to say is that it's still possible for us to work together. No lawyers to stir up excitement-no charges.'

McCloskey took some time to think about it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, finally leaned back in his chair and swiveled around to face Garth. 'That's what I thought you were saying, Frederickson,' he said quietly.

Garth looked at me, smiled thinly. 'That Mongo has such a silver tongue, doesn't he, McCloskey? But then, I thought what I was saying was obvious.'

'So who were those guys, Lieutenant?' I asked. 'What's their story? We know they worked for Nuvironment, but there must be more. I'm sure we can read all about them tomorrow in the newspapers, but we're probably going to be so busy dodging reporters that we won't have much time to read. What can you tell us about them?'

McCloskey slumped in his chair, sighed, and rubbed his knuckles into his eyes. 'Christ, Frederickson, I'm tired,' he said, apparently speaking to Garth. 'I wish I could get out of here like you did. I've got a real bad feeling about this thing. I don't think I can afford a mistake, and nobody is willing to tell me what the ground rules are.'

'One more week,' Garth said not unkindly. 'I hear what you're saying. Under the circumstances, every day for the next seven days is probably going to feel like a week-or maybe a year. Mongo and I can't really advise you, but it seems to me that you'll be in the clear as long as you do your job.'

'Yeah? I'm not sure my job shouldn't be to arrest the two of you and charge you with murder.'

'Then do it,' Garth replied evenly. 'Either arrest us, or believe that we're innocent and that your job as a cop is to help us stop a madman from sexually abusing a little girl. It's your retirement you're looking for-but it's your choice as to how best to do your job until next week at this time.' Garth paused, then actually laughed. 'Hey, McCloskey, if you want, Mongo and I will serve as your character witnesses if you get brought up on any departmental charges in the next seven days.'

McCloskey almost smiled. 'Spare me,' he said, and sighed again. He stared at the ceiling for some time, then continued: 'The stiffs' names were Floyd and Baxter Small; that's what their identification said. There was nothing on them to indicate that they worked for Nuvironment.'

'But they did,' I said. 'Nobody else would have had an interest in following us.'

'You say.'

'Call Patton or somebody else at Nuvironment and see what they have to say. I don't believe Patton went to Europe.'

McCloskey looked away. 'It seems Patton doesn't have a phone-listed or unlisted. And nobody's going to be up there in the office on Christmas Day.'

'Call Henry Blaisdel and see what he has to say. As a matter of fact, I'd like to talk to him if you can get him on the phone.'

'It isn't the first time the Smalls have made it into the papers,' McCloskey said, ignoring what I thought had been a most helpful suggestion.

Garth grunted. 'I don't recall either of the names, McCloskey. Where would Mongo and I have read about them before?'

'It would have been a small item, maybe a year or two ago. It seems the Small brothers were pro golfers-but not anywhere near top rank. They played on a secondary circuit that toured a lot of the third world countries. They were playing in some tournament in Botswana, of all places, when they both came down with the crazies. It seems they were taking part in some kind of Christian athletes' prayer meeting in the hotel where they were staying when they had a vision of Jesus. They tore up their passports and all their money, stripped off their clothes, and went running through the lobby screaming at the top of their lungs. They ran right through a plate-glass window, and they were lucky they didn't cut their heads off. There were difficulties in getting them new papers so they could come back here. It made the papers. Immigration has copies of their new passports on file, if you're interested.'

'Jesus,' I said. 'And you said you didn't believe us when we told you they went into a religious trance?'

'They didn't kill themselves in Botswana,' McCloskey mumbled, avoiding my gaze.

'Obviously-but only because the prayer meeting was held on the first floor. Patton, or maybe Henry Blaisdel, seems to have a thing for athletes. He's got two ex-ballplayers on his staff; they serve as muscle.'

'That doesn't prove anything.'

'It's a link.'

'To what?'

It was Garth who answered. 'One of Blaisdel's favorite charities is something called Born Again Christian Athletes for Christ, McCloskey. That strikes me as rather redundant, but that's what they call themselves. You can look it up. I came across it in the library. In the article, the word 'fanatical' was used more than once. Apparently, they're not to be confused with any of the other organizations of Christian athletes.'

'You didn't tell me that,' I said to my brother.

'It didn't seem important at the time; I was looking up Blaisdel's companies, not his charities.'

'Thank you for the information, Lieutenant,' I said, turning back to McCloskey.

'Yeah.'

'The problem is that it doesn't do any of us any good, since the Smalls are dead. Nuvironment, the people working there, is the key to this thing. I'm certain Patton is still lurking around here someplace; but if you can't find him to talk to, then you're going to have to talk to Henry Blaisdel.'

'Don't try to tell me how to do my job, Frederickson.'

'Those two worked for Nuvironment-they were being chauffeured around in limousines, for Christ's sake. Peter Patton is covering up something big, and he'll obviously risk a lot to make sure nobody finds out what it is. It's a lot more than a shipment of dirt, or a case of child sexual abuse. Men die for him-or they die to hide his secret. You've got a lot of seriously crazy religious zealots on the loose here, Lieutenant, and I'd think you'd want to find out just what it is they're up to.'

McCloskey was beginning to look seriously distressed. 'Being religious-or supporting a Christian athletes' group-is no crime, Frederickson.'

'Aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice is-and every time Craig Valley or either of the Smalls opened his mouth he sounded like a clone of William Kenecky. Sometimes religion of that brand can kill. Remember the Inquisition? Every single Nazi or neo-Nazi group in the world, in this country, has used that kind of religious interpretation as a foundation stone for the rest of their murderous nonsense. Maybe it's time you asked the F.B.I, to come in.'